


Slip of the Tongue

by robocryptid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Humor, Sort Of, Voice Kink, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27632717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid
Summary: This was meant to be McCree’s job. He did the research, studied the blueprints, laid out the plan. Two nights before he hoped to depart, he broke his leg from a nasty fall. If Hanzo didn’t take over, McCree would lose the opportunity entirely. The compromise was simple: Hanzo would do the work on his behalf, but McCree would not have to relinquish full control. Instead he remained connected by a standard Overwatch communicator and a minuscule camera.Hanzo offered of his own free will. He chose this. His only regret is that McCree seems incapable of giving instructions that don’t sound like innuendo.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 33
Kudos: 476





	Slip of the Tongue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mataglap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/gifts).



> For mataglap, whose support I am eternally grateful for. 
> 
> Thanks to YourAverageJoke and coinin for the hand-holding.

“It’s a tight squeeze.” McCree is too loud in contrast with the near silence of the room. 

“You could have warned me,” Hanzo says with a soft grunt. The muscles in his thighs strain as he carefully lowers his weight. 

“Take it easy,” McCree chides. “Almost there now.” Hanzo pushes sweaty hair from his face. He has to contort himself in a way that makes his spine remember he is nearing forty, but he manages well enough. “Now a little to your right.”

“There?”

“Yeah, that’s it.” McCree’s voice is a satisfied purr that Hanzo can feel at the base of his spine. 

Hanzo can’t respond now that his mouth is full, flashlight shoved between his teeth while he wrestles with the metal panel in front of him. Once he has pried it free, McCree walks him through the steps required to disarm the facility’s alarm system. 

This was meant to be McCree’s job. He is the one who did the research, studied the blueprints, laid out the plan. Two nights before he hoped to depart, he broke his leg from a nasty fall. Hanzo tries to banish the memory now, but the guilt lingers. It was not his fault, but still, if he had run faster, paid closer attention,  _ something,  _ he might have prevented it. 

It was the least he could offer to take over the job. If he didn’t, McCree would lose the opportunity entirely. This was a simple compromise. Hanzo would do the work on his behalf, but McCree would not have to relinquish full control. Instead he remained connected by a standard Overwatch communicator and the minuscule camera fitted over one eye by a narrow visor. Hanzo is not sure how readily he might have agreed to the collaboration without Winston’s enthusiastic support for the plan, but he did offer his aid. His primary regret is that McCree seems incapable of giving instructions that don’t sound like innuendo.

“See? Nice and easy. I knew you’d be perfect for this,” McCree says, yanking him back to the present task of infiltrating a former Overwatch facility — now under the oversight of Helix Security — with McCree in his ear, in pursuit of some prototype they intend to move before the end of the week. 

“I am not some junior agent in need of your encouragement,” Hanzo grouses, but a small part of him is pleased, as it often is when McCree pays him a compliment. 

“Maybe I just wanna make you feel good.”

Hanzo’s breathing remains rigidly controlled, but one hand gives the faintest tremor at the words, slowing down his efforts to slide the metal panel back into place. He has no doubt that McCree could indeed make him feel good, if that were ever actually on the table. It is unfortunate, then, that the closest he has ever come to such an offer is this, McCree speaking into his ear, somehow innocuous and suggestive at once. Perhaps the problem is less what he says and more the quality of his voice, smokey and low, inviting itself into Hanzo’s body and swirling through him, as pleasant as the whiskey they sometimes share.

“Your compliments are appreciated but unnecessary.” There. That is sufficiently neutral without being outright rude. 

“Aww, I knew you knew how to be nice. Can’t I be nice too?”

Hanzo has to force himself to stop grinding his teeth. No, the things McCree says matter almost as much as the voice saying it. Hanzo genuinely cannot tell if he is doing this on purpose. “You could be nicer by telling me where to go next.”

The low chuckle that produces does nearly as much as McCree’s voice, but at least he walks Hanzo past the first security camera without any complications. The next stop is the security officers’ station. Hanzo slips in and disables the single guard quickly and near-silently. 

“Damn. You’re good at this.” McCree lets out an appreciative whistle that is low enough it doesn’t turn into a shriek through the comms.

Hanzo snorts. “I may have some practice.” It is easier to deflect this compliment than to let it distract him. Now is neither the time nor the place. The guard’s keycard is not the only measure to prevent unauthorized access to the console; it prompts him for a password. 

“Hold on, I got you.” Then McCree laughs again, requiring Hanzo to take a fortifying breath and think of the raw chicken he saw thawing in the kitchen yesterday. “Oh God, this guy. Romeo, one, Mike, Juliet, zero, bravo.” 

“R-1-M— That cannot be it,” Hanzo mutters even as the console unlocks for him. “Ridiculous.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re not into it.” If McCree must be so amused, at least this is a childish snicker rather than the more suggestive sounds from before.

Hanzo refuses to take the bait to discuss sexual activities right  _ now.  _ “Six characters? Purely alphanumeric? It’s a terrible password.” For some reason, this only encourages McCree’s laughter. 

It is a simple matter to spoof the security footage for this floor so that it shows the previous evening’s empty hallways instead. “Am I still alone?” Hanzo asks. 

“It’s just you and me, darlin’.”

“Are you—” A dozen variations on the question pass through his mind, but in the end, Hanzo cannot bring himself to ask if McCree’s phrasing is deliberate. He clears his throat. “Is there anything else I need from this guard?”

“Nope, you got it all.”

McCree guides him down a long hall and past another security system before he makes it into the lab. He’s careful not to touch anything else, but he spots the item in a plexiglass case on one of the benches. In person, it looks even more absurd than he expected. 

Frankly, it looks like… He glances away, refusing to blush. He blames McCree for putting his mind in the gutter in the first place. “Is this it?” he grumbles. 

“Can you show me?” McCree’s voice has  _ no  _ right to sound like that. 

Hanzo gives himself a moment to stabilize, then he turns his head back toward the prototype so the camera can pick up what he’s seeing. It’s a transmitter of some kind, and oddly shaped. It has a narrow tip, slightly rounded, and it flares wider toward the bottom before tapering off once more. There is even a flat base attached for it to stand on — or to act as a way to retrieve the item, should it ever be misused by someone who sees what Hanzo sees. 

“Oh. That’s… Well, that sure is a shape somebody chose.” McCree snickers. 

“Focus, please,” Hanzo says, ignoring the pressure building in his temples. He has no desire to think further thoughts of McCree and sex toys until he is safely back in his room at the Watchpoint, if even then. There is something oddly comforting about knowing he is not the only one who sees it, though. 

“That’s it,” McCree confirms. There’s a tremor in his voice that suggests he’s holding back his amusement. At least he is  _ trying. _

“Is it safe to touch?” 

“Yeah, you can touch it.”

Hanzo figures he has no right to be angry when he walked right into that one, but it still makes him grit his teeth. He pulls his gloves into place before he inspects the box protecting the transmitter. He could perhaps take the whole case, but this will be easier without the bulk.

McCree seems to believe he’s helping when he offers, “Should be able to… Yeah, right there, you got it.”

A hidden latch catches against Hanzo’s thumb. He breathes out, relieved, then he snatches the very-much-not-a-buttplug-thank-you out of the box. It’s immediately followed by a pressure in his ear — like a dog whistle, a sound beyond his ability to hear, but its presence felt nonetheless. 

“Shit,” McCree mutters. 

“What is it?”

“Some kinda silent alarm. Think it’s rigged to that case. You gotta get outta there. Let me… Got it. Hang a right outta the room.”

Hanzo stuffs the transmitter into his jacket pocket, then he follows McCree’s instructions. None of these sound particularly dirty, a fact for which Hanzo is exceedingly grateful. He isn’t sure he could handle trying to escape the facility if every instruction was also innuendo. 

McCree steers him around the response team and through the building successfully, but outside is more difficult. “Look around for me,” McCree says, all business now. “Stop. That way’s north. There are two squads, so watch their searchlights. You gotta time it just right.”

Hanzo watches the light from the patrols circle the area. The pattern is slow but Helix’s military precision also makes their movements predictable. Hanzo is already running by the time McCree says, “Go.”

He darts north into the darkness. There’s a shout behind him, a call gone up. He doubts he was spotted, but Helix has to have realized he’s no longer inside. Their sweeps could only take so long. They will also know their tech is missing by now. 

He runs for what feels like a mile or two, at least, in the dark, in the woods, with McCree occasionally correcting his sense of direction. 

“Watch your feet, there’s an old hidey hole out here,” McCree says. “Slow down. Now to your left. Just a little farther— there.”

Hanzo drops to his knees with a heavy puff of air, digging through the fallen leaves and dirt until he finds metal. It’s rusted, but it’s a small trap door. He can’t pull the leaves back over it, but he does his best, and once he’s inside, he locks it tight before descending the ladder. 

It’s a tiny bunker, kitted with out of date Overwatch supplies. “What is this place?”

Hanzo fears their reception was cut off, but there’s a pop of feedback in his ear, then McCree’s voice comes through again, tinnier than before but just as clear. “Got ’em all over the old facilities. Probably one hidin’ around Gibraltar, too.”

“In the caves, maybe,” Hanzo muses. “It’s clever.”

“Jack came from those old survivalist types. Pretty sure they were his idea.” 

Hanzo makes a thoughtful sound as he digs out one of the cots to sit on. He doesn’t mind waiting in silence, so he doesn’t know why he asks, “Are you going to stay on the line?”

“I’ll stay as long as you want me.” That makes Hanzo smile ruefully, suddenly grateful the camera doesn’t pick up his face, only the things he sees. “Thanks, by the way.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“I’ll think whatever I want of it,” McCree teases. “It was good of you.”

Rather than argue further, Hanzo changes the subject. “How long until extraction?”

“Got a good four hours, maybe longer if the weather’s bad for flyin’. Good news for now, though. Helix is lookin’ in the wrong direction.” McCree’s voice is low and rumbling again. It might be soothing if Hanzo’s body did not insist on reacting the way it does.

He doesn’t even have the mission to distract him now. He pulls the transmitter from his pocket, nestling it atop his discarded jacket before he peels off his gloves too. Then he settles back on the cot. 

“Lyin’ down on the job?” McCree teases. 

“There is little else to do.”

“Aww, but you got me for company.” If only. “I’m sure I can find some way to distract you.”

“I am sure you could.” Hanzo thinks it sounds bland enough, a mild agreement when there is nothing else to say, but McCree’s quiet  _ um _ says otherwise. Hanzo feels his whole face heat up. “You always seem to find some diversion.”

“You sayin’ I’m easily distracted?”

“I am calling you mischievous.”

“I prefer adventurous.”

Hanzo fights against the thrill that chases down his spine; his mind supplies several meanings of  _ adventurous  _ that McCree surely did not intend. “Tell me about one of these adventures of yours.”

McCree launches readily into one of his tall tales. Some elements of it may be true, but Hanzo has a difficult time believing even someone as competent as McCree could face down fifteen enemy agents alone, or that he started from atop a moving hypertrain. He doesn’t contest the story though, and it takes him a moment to realize when McCree finishes. 

“You fallin’ asleep on me?” 

Hanzo smiles to himself. He wasn’t falling asleep, but after the adrenaline dump, he is feeling tired enough that he doesn’t blame McCree for wondering. “No.”

“Bored, then?”

“Listening.”

“Hard to tell with you.”

“I like hearing you tell your stories,” Hanzo says firmly. It’s close enough to the truth. The stories themselves are fine; the voice telling those stories, that’s something he could listen to for hours. 

“Mm, careful. You don’t know how bad it can get if you indulge me.” 

“What if I want to indulge you?” Hanzo asks, voice rasping with his exhaustion. 

A quiet cough comes through the line. There’s a fleeting moment where he thinks McCree has disappeared. Then McCree says, “Keep that up and you’re gonna give me ideas.”

Hanzo’s lip finds its way between his teeth. It’s a silly habit, one he has tried for years to break himself of, but right now it is the only thing keeping his breath from hissing while he processes that. It’s as close to a naked declaration of interest as McCree has ever gotten, and there do not seem to be any alternative explanations. 

“What sort of ideas?” He knows it’s unfair to play coy, but he feels compelled by the tiny voice inside him that perpetually doubts his instincts with people. From the hitch in McCree’s breathing, his instincts are perfectly tuned for once. In the following quiet, he can picture McCree rubbing a hand across his mouth, the way he does when he’s flustered or ruminating on some problem. He can picture the shape of McCree’s mouth too, but he pushes that thought to the periphery for now.

When McCree speaks again, it’s so low and rumbling that Hanzo’s arms are suddenly alive with goosebumps. “Was gonna say ‘the wrong sort’, but now I’m not so sure.”

“There is only one way to know for certain,” Hanzo prods. The weight of anticipation sits strangely on his skin, and he tries to get comfortable on the cot without making it obvious to the camera that he’s fidgeting. McCree’s silence drags on, until he begins to wonder if he misstepped, misread the flirtation he thought he heard. Intent on seeming as nonchalant as possible, he glances around the bunker, eventually landing on the set of lockers to his left. 

He pauses there, scowling at the doodle someone has left behind of a drooling phallus and enormous, misshapen balls beneath. McCree barks out a laugh. “Is that—?”

“Yes,” Hanzo sighs. “I see Overwatch has always struggled to find employees with good taste.”

McCree’s snicker should not be an attractive sound, but it nonetheless has the same frustrating effect on his body as most of the things that escape McCree’s mouth. “I don’t know, there’s somethin’ to be said for taking the direct approach…”

Hanzo wonders if it’s meant to be some sort of censure for his earlier coyness. He suspects that if it is, it can only be a good sign that McCree’s invested in his methods — it means he’s not put off by the interest itself. He chews on that thought but deflects for another moment. “Direct or indirect does not change that those testicles are horrifying.”

“I didn’t know you had strong opinions about balls.”

“I do not have  _ strong opinions  _ about them. There is no way a person could walk, is all.”

“So you’re not, like, a cojones connoisseur?”

Hanzo’s brain feels like it has shorted out. “A  _ what?” _

“A ball buff? Stone specialist? Freak for the family jewels?”

“I…” Hanzo has to dig for the proper words past the growing mortification  _ for  _ McCree, which is only made more unfair by knowing that McCree doesn’t have the sense of shame required to be mortified, himself. “I want to unlearn English.”

That makes McCree laugh harder than it has any right to. It is the stupidest thing Hanzo has ever felt proud of. It also creeps under his skin again, settling warmly inside him. Absurd. This whole situation is absurd. Hanzo joins McCree in his laughter. His limbs feel looser, finally unwinding after the stress of the mission, and he finally summons the willpower to look away from the ridiculous drawing. 

They drift into a comfortable silence, one where Hanzo angles his face toward the ceiling, which is far less remarkable than the lockers. He doesn’t realize how much time has passed until McCree asks quietly, “You fallin’ asleep this time?”

“Mm, still no.”

“You can, if you need to. I can set you an alarm, keep an eye on your location.”

The offer curls up softly in his chest alongside their shared laughter and this whole stupid mission. There is a very short list of people Hanzo might trust to watch over him while he sleeps, but he should not be so surprised to discover McCree on it. It won’t help him sleep now. Some other time, perhaps. That is almost comforting enough to balance his distress that his faith in McCree runs deeper than he realized. “I am not tired.” He pauses, starting to scrub a hand over his brow before he remembers not to jostle the camera too much. “Not tired in that way.”

McCree hums. “All I ever want after a mission is to sleep for a week.”

“Sometimes that is what I want,” Hanzo says slowly. “Other times…” He can’t stop the lazy smile from creeping into his voice or the self-conscious chuckle from escaping.

McCree might laugh again too, but his is strained and staccato. There’s a hesitation before he says, “Not sure how to help with that one.”

There it is again — the opportunity to pry until he finds whatever it is making McCree so tentative. The anticipation coils tightly inside him, and once again Hanzo has to shift his weight as subtly as possible. If he pushes and he’s wrong, he is not sure what the result will be. He has never been comfortable with the unpredictable, but it is growing more difficult to believe the consequences could be particularly dire. If he isn’t wrong…

He takes a careful breath, quiet enough to hide it from the receiver, and he forces himself to sound relaxed as he says, “You could tell me about those bad ideas you had.”

The silence practically rings in his ears. It is profound, and as it persists, he begins to wonder if he got this wrong. Then there’s a shaky breath in his ear, one that he feels deep in his gut. “Always imagined I’d get to kiss you first, at least,” McCree says.

“Always?” he asks, suppressing something like giddiness. Without the tension weighing him down, he suddenly feels too light. 

“A while, anyway.” 

“You can kiss me when I return, if you are still so inclined.” He can feel heat in his cheeks that he pushes away. It’s not the desire that gets to him; rather, it’s how pleased he is, this warm, soft thing unfurling inside him. 

“That so?”

“You could have done so much sooner if I had known.” 

“That why you took up this job for me?”

Hanzo chews his lip again, but it no longer feels so dangerous to say certain things aloud. “I owed you, but… I also appreciated the opportunity to do something you needed.”

McCree huffs into his ear. It’s followed by the sounds of McCree moving about, the uneven shuffle of his foot and one crutch, a quiet snick in the background. 

“What are you—?” Hanzo starts. 

“Lockin’ the door.” Heat spikes through him at just those three words. McCree’s voice has dipped low again, and Hanzo’s pulse thrums like the sound is running through his bloodstream by now. “You wanna hear my ideas, I think we need some privacy.” There’s a loud breath that makes Hanzo’s knees spread all on its own. “Take your shirt off. I wanna see you.”

He pushes into a sitting position to tug at his t-shirt. He’s careful as he maneuvers it over the visor, before he tosses it aside. Assuming this is what McCree is after, he tips his chin, angling the camera until they’re both looking over the slope of his pecs and down the hard planes of his stomach, his fingers trailing in the wake of his gaze. 

“Look at you,” McCree sighs. Hanzo’s hips shift toward his own touch as his hands come to rest on his thighs. His thumbs angle inward, bracketing the bulge of his slowly swelling cock. He is not typically confident in his people skills, but this has always come easily enough. He has worked hard on this body; he knows what it looks like, knows what the people he has slept with appreciate. McCree seems to be one of them. “Goddamn,” he breathes as Hanzo toys with the button of his pants, just above where they have begun to tent. “That for me?”

“Yes.” Emboldened by the near reverence in McCree’s tone, he slides one hand between his legs, tracing the outline of his cock as it fills out. “Your voice is… inspiring.” 

“Is that right?” There’s a quiet scrape and an inhale in his ear. He can picture the matches McCree uses to light his cigars, can picture his tongue rolling and his pink lips wrapping around one now. When he hears the long exhale, he knows he was right. “You been gettin’ worked up this whole time?” McCree chuckles then, the sound roiling through Hanzo’s veins. “Gettin’ hot under the collar just from my voice?”

“Not  _ only  _ your voice,” Hanzo says, his own suddenly scraping out of his mouth. “The content matters.”

It’s easy to picture McCree sitting back in his desk chair, with hooded eyes and a lazy, crooked smile as he smokes his cigar, loose-limbed and calm like he’s not purring into Hanzo’s ear, watching Hanzo cup himself on a video feed. The thoughtful noise McCree makes only worms deeper under the skin. “What do you wanna hear?”

Hanzo wets his lips, swallows past the dryness of his throat. “Tell me what you would do, if you were here right now.”

The breath he hears doesn’t sound so even this time. “List is pretty long, but I’m thinkin’ I wanna get my mouth on you first. All of you.” Several images compete in Hanzo’s mind, and his cock hardens against his palm, his hips nudging forward on their own. Before he can ask which of those images is correct, McCree continues, “Why don’t you show me how you want me to touch you?”

Hanzo adjusts so that he’s lying on his back again, careful to keep the camera angled down his body for McCree’s sake. Then he lets one hand rest on his inner thigh, avoiding his cock for now, and he lifts the other, starts at the neck and works his way down, calloused palm scraping over his clavicle, before he gently kneads his fingers into his chest. 

“Yeah?” McCree breathes sharply. “God, I’ve thought about it, the way you run around half dressed,” he says with a tight voice. “Show me both hands.” Hanzo drags the other hand up, until he has one pec in each. He pushes them up, arching into his splayed fingers. “You sensitive there?”

“Yes.” He gives both another squeeze. He doesn’t bother to suppress the way his breath hitches this time. 

“I could watch you do that forever. You know how long I’ve wanted to touch you like that? Bury my face in your chest until I can’t breathe?” 

Hanzo pops one thumb into his mouth, then he returns to roll it over his nipple. “This could be your tongue.” He flicks at it now, then moves his thumb so McCree can see it’s pebbled up. 

“Yeah,” McCree sighs. “You like teeth too?”

“Mm, sometimes.” 

“Lemme see you pinch ’em, then.” Hanzo does, catching each nipple between thumb and forefinger, pinching lightly, twisting until he arches again, a low sound in his throat. “You better mean it. Better not be teasin’ me about doin’ this for real once you get back. You know how hard it’s gonna be to keep my hands off you now?”

Hanzo can’t contain his relief that he is not the only one who wants more, even now. “You won’t have to, except perhaps in public.”

One hand skates over tough obliques and across his stomach, the muscles softer now while he’s relaxed. “I don’t know,” McCree teases. “I’m sensin’ you like bein’ watched.”

“By you.” 

“Good thing I like watchin’.” He hears McCree’s breathing stutter as his hand slides between his thighs, cupping himself through his pants again. “Show me.” McCree’s voice is at its roughest yet, and the command in it sends a shudder through Hanzo’s body. 

He lifts his hips, abdominal muscles taut, so McCree can see every step as he pries open his button and zipper. He slides his pants down until they sit below his ass, revealing the black fabric straining over his erection. Then he’s grabbing the waistband of his underwear, easing it carefully down to reveal the trimmed thatch of dark hair, then the wet head of his cock. He slides them down far enough to expose all of him. 

McCree lets out a stunned sound. “Of course even your dick is perfect,” he says after a moment, voice too thick with desire to really deliver the wryness. Hanzo doesn’t know what to say to that, but he curls his fingers around the base, lifting gently for McCree to get a better look. “You gonna let me suck you off later?”

“If you like,” Hanzo says as if his voice could remain composed like this. 

“Gonna let me get my mouth on your pretty dick? Gonna pull my hair when I do?” Hanzo’s only answer this time is the hushed, husky groan that escapes as McCree’s words flood his body with heat. “Thought about it a few times, whether you’d let me explore or if you’d wanna fuck my face. I want your cock so far down my throat I can taste it next week. God, I bet you even taste good.” McCree sounds proud, like he knows he’s rendered Hanzo temporarily speechless. “But maybe the first time, I wanna go slower, take my time with you.”

Hanzo’s hand has started to move along his cock without conscious permission, as McCree’s voice coils around his chest and moves through his body. He has to drop his hips down, so he pushes up onto one elbow so the camera still catches everything. 

“Yeah, that’s good,” McCree says with another of those sighs. “Nice and slow.” Hanzo palms over the crown, smearing meager wetness below it as he gives a few loose pumps of his hand. McCree’s breathing is so loud in his ear that he imagines he can feel its heat against his neck. “Let me see where you want my mouth.”

Hanzo’s chest hitches with amusement when the thought occurs to him, and he pries his hand away from his cock, slides it lower until he can lift his balls into clearer view of the camera. His fingers glide over the thin, delicate skin, and he can’t show the rest, but he thinks he communicates it clearly enough when his hand slips well beyond what the lens can pick up, fingertips skipping along his perineum and back. 

There’s no sound, but he thinks that might be some sort of victory. When McCree finds his voice again, it sounds tight. “So I was right. You  _ are  _ into that.”

“I am ‘into’ a lot of things.” 

“Is that what you want when you get back? Want me to lay you down, lick you open?” McCree’s pitch has dropped so deep that he’s nearly growling now. “Thought about that before too, seein’ how long you can last with just my tongue.” Hanzo can’t resist the temptation of his straining cock any longer. His hand curls loosely around it, calluses rough on the sensitive skin as he works the length slowly. “That mean you wanna take my dick too?”

He shudders and has to lick his lips before he can speak again. “I thought you might like it the other way.”

“Yeah? Dick like yours, it  _ would  _ be a shame to let it go to waste. You thought about that before, huh? Gotten yourself off thinkin’ about me ridin’ you?”

“Yes,” Hanzo grits out. His cock flexes in his hand too, drooling out more affirmation for McCree’s thoroughly stroked ego. 

“Bet you’d feel so good in me. God, and those fat fuckin’ fingers, bet you could get me off with those too.” McCree’s voice trembles slightly, but it’s the only sign this is having any effect on him. There’s a dark chuckle that skitters along Hanzo’s spine. “But I think you dodged the question. You said you were into a lotta things. I don’t think you always wanna top, do you? Bet you bend over real easy for the right person.” There’s a pause then, where it becomes clear through the haze of lust that McCree is waiting for an answer, waiting for some sign that Hanzo’s still interested after the change of course. He thinks the slippery drag of his hand over his cock should be answer enough, and maybe it  _ almost  _ is, because McCree purrs, “Admit it. Sometimes you just wanna get wrecked.”

The sound Hanzo makes is embarrassingly close to a whine. “Yes,” he says, throat so dry that he has to repeat it.

“Fuckin’ knew it.” McCree doesn’t even sound smug, not when his voice is coming out reedier, breathier, like his control is starting to slip too. “Way you carry yourself, wound up so tight, need somebody to fuck the stress right outta you, don’t you? Bet you’d look so good takin’ it, that tight little ass around my cock. Won’t even have to work for it. I’ll do everything. Eat you out ’til you’re beggin’ me for it, spread you open on my dick, fuck you until you’re useless, nothin’ left but a goddamn mess.” 

Hanzo’s panting raggedly now, and it’s hard to think about the camera, to keep it aimed down his body, as he strips his cock, as his hips stutter upward, trying to fuck into his fist. McCree sounds almost as gone when he asks, “Gonna let me do it raw? Let me come inside you?” Hanzo’s only answer is the labored groan that he tries to bite back. “No, c’mon, let me hear you.” As if on command, another moan escapes. “Yeah, just like that.”

The arm propping him up is trembling, numb from shoulder to elbow, but he holds it as long as he can while McCree croons more filth into his ear, voice slowly beginning to waver, with sharper and more frequent breaths between the words. He can hear the rhythmic sound of McCree’s hand on his cock, coming through the feed like an echo of his own. 

When he can’t hold himself up any longer, when he drops back onto the cot and stares at the ceiling instead, McCree growls, “You close, baby? Come for me, I wanna hear it.” That’s the last push Hanzo needs. He flings his head back violently, muscles trying to lock as he groans, the sound ripped from somewhere deep and primal. 

He doesn’t know how long he lies there twitching with the aftershocks before he remembers the camera. He tips his chin down to rest on his chest, squeezing lightly at his softening cock before he runs his fingers through the come on his stomach. A lazy heat swirls through his gut with the knowledge that McCree’s fucking his hand right now because of him. Contrary to every expectation built up to this point, McCree gets quieter the closer he gets to coming, until there’s nothing but choked off, shaking breaths and the wet noise of him jerking off.

The least Hanzo can do is help him along. “Look at the mess you made of me, cowboy,” he murmurs. He has no illusions that his voice is as potent as McCree’s, but he does his best, pitches it low and attempts to smooth out the usual roughness. “If you were here, I would make you clean it up with your tongue. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You like to use your mouth.” He smirks at McCree’s cursing. “I’d like to use your mouth too.”

It isn’t much, isn’t nearly as elaborate as the filthy stream of words McCree is capable of, but it’s enough, it seems, if the sounds on the other end of the line are anything to go by. McCree’s panting speeds up before there’s a quiet grunt and a long, drawn out sigh. 

Neither of them speaks for a time. When he’s recovered, McCree breaks the extended silence with a quiet, “Shit,” and a jittery laugh. Then he clears his throat. “You mean all of that?”

“As I recall, you did most of the talking,” Hanzo says dryly, looking about for some method to clean himself now. “If you’re asking whether my interest is sincere, or whether I would do any of the things we… discussed… the answer to both is, unequivocally, yes.” 

“Fancy way of sayin’ you like me.” 

Hanzo can’t fight the smile, and he isn’t sure he needs to. “Fine. I like you.” 

“Check those lockers. Bet there’s a blanket or a towel or somethin’ in one of them.” He isn’t wrong. There is a blanket, faded and thin with the Overwatch logo slapped mid center. Hanzo feels only vaguely guilty using it to wipe himself down. “Same, though.”

Hanzo ducks his head as if someone could see how much that pleases him, which he belatedly realizes gives McCree a ridiculous view of his spent cock hanging over his lowered underwear. He looks away as soon as he can, blindly pulling his clothing back into place. After some further digging, he discovers antiseptic wipes and hand sanitizer, which go a long way toward alleviating his concern that Lena is going to arrive to find him looking — and smelling — like a sweaty pervert. 

“You want me to let you take that nap now?” McCree offers. “Or just cut the line, give you some quiet?”

“No.”

“Oh. Good.” 

After a moment, Hanzo lands on something worth talking about. “It isn’t just sex. The things I’ve thought about.”

“Same again.” McCree might sound relieved. 

That stupid smile threatens to crack Hanzo’s face in half. “Would you like to know where I would take you, if we could go somewhere right now?” 

“Guess we got some time to kill.” However nonchalant the words, there’s a grin in his voice that might be as foolish as Hanzo’s. “You can tell me anything you want.”


End file.
